


Militiae Species Amor Est

by brevitas



Series: Leader of the Muses [5]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Greek Gods AU, M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 03:11:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brevitas/pseuds/brevitas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Enjolras and Grantaire have a moment and Apollo finds out how many times Dionysus has painted him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Militiae Species Amor Est

They settle eventually on a horror, because Grantaire has seen all the good thrillers and "the rest of them are shit". He puts his foot down completely on romances (Jehan makes him watch enough to last him a few lifetimes over) and says dramas and dubbed anime has been ruined by America's contemporary culture. He's unsettled when Enjolras offers no complaints, heeding his wishes and starting the grueling process of finding a good horror.

Grantaire watches him from the corner of his eye and sips his beer, tries to put his finger on what's changed. When Enjolras decides they're watching a movie they're watching it; the only way out is to have a solid counter-argument that quotes famous political authors and uses the word 'revolution' a lot. Grantaire's only complaint was that he didn't want to watch them, and that has never stood in the blonde's way before.

He hums his agreement when Enjolras stops at a movie called Lovely Molly and hits play. It opens like a lot of modern horrors do, with a handheld camera and a bedraggled woman, but Grantaire is barely watching it. He's more engrossed in the man sitting next to him, and when he finishes his first beer he brings a second to his hand. Booze make him think better, he likes to say. He was born for it, after all.

Enjolras doesn't look at him once but when the movie starts getting a little freakier and the shaky camera is scarier than a stable one would've been he does scoot down a little, bumping their knees; Grantaire is about to say something but the next scene startles both of them and when he jumps he curses instead. 

Enjolras laughs and pats him on the back, says, "It's alright," with a cheeky grin. When he turns back to the television Grantaire tries not to rub too obviously at his shoulder, burning like he can still feel the lingering heat of Enjolras' palm.

The film ends up being more psychologically scary than anything else, and Grantaire gets distracted from his mission of figuring out what's up with Enjolras when he gets invested in the movie instead. When it ends he has about a hundred different theories on what could have caused the woman to snap like that, and even has an idea or two about how the directors could've changed a few things to make it less weird and more appealing to a wider audience.

It's dark in the room, the natural light from outside having failed a while ago, and when Grantaire turns to look at Enjolras he notices that his blue eyes look unnaturally bright, the wane light from the television reflecting against his irises. "Two stars," he says decisively, and Enjolras uses his left hand to comply; he rests his right almost naturally on Grantaire's knee, and the drunk watches it while it settles, his entire body prepping for a fight or a screaming match or anything bloody and violent and crass. Enjolras is kind but he has teeth and you'd be foolish to forget such a thing; but he does nothing more, the tips of his fingers twitching absently when he rates the title and returns to the dash.

"Do you want to watch another one?" He asks, turns and looks at Grantaire (who's staring again, he's sure, and when he averts his eyes ends up looking at Enjolras' hand instead, the fingers tight in his jeans).

"Uh." He licks his lips, strives to be nonchalant when he conjures another beer. "Sure."

If Enjolras notices his awkwardness (he does, but that's another story) he doesn't comment on it, and turns back to the horrors without another word. They find another potential jewel in the rough called The Hollow but before Enjolras plays it Grantaire says suddenly, "Listen, I'm not a stalker or anything."

Enjolras lifts an eyebrow at him (his unblemished alabaster skin is particularly lovely in this dim light, Grantaire absentmindedly notices). "What?"

He produces a noisy sigh and slides his grip lower on his beer bottle, cupping the bottom. "I just mean--you haven't said anything about that painting."

Enjolras' eyebrow inches higher. "Was I supposed to?"

Grantaire is getting irritated and he tries to ignore the warm pressure of anger in his stomach but it's hard; he's used to fighting with Enjolras, and this evening should be no different (but it is, and that's scaring him). 

"It was a picture of _you_ ," he explains impatiently, a mean bite blatant behind his words. "Most people would ask about it. Wonder what I was doing with it, maybe?"

"I figured you were painting it," Enjolras says dryly, and Grantaire's mouth twitches. The hand on his knee is noticeable to both of them now but Apollo doesn't take it back and he's gripping tightly enough that it's on the cusp of hurting. Stubbornly, Grantaire says nothing about it, and just as bullheaded, Enjolras doesn't either.

"You know it went missing last night," he says, neglects to see the way Enjolras' eyes crinkle at the corners because he's throwing back another hard swallow of beer. "I think I might have pitched it off my balcony."

He waits for Enjolras to say something vicious, something that Grantaire can go home and pinch between his palms and toast to while he drinks. He's sorely disappointed when Enjolras' fingers relax instead and he says idly, "That's a shame--I liked it." It's hard to tell but Grantaire thinks he might be blushing a bit (but that can't be real; Enjolras doesn't blush, let alone over a painting that Grantaire of all people made), and he adds, "I'm sure it got a good home, at least."

Grantaire snaps his mouth shut and wonders who the hell this person who's pretending to be Enjolras is, and how they managed to sneak onto Olympus. He swallows and is surprised at how harmless his tone is when he says, "I hope so too."

This time he does note the way one corner of Enjolras' mouth curls up, how, for a single snapshot, he looks infinitely pleased. Grantaire suddenly remembers that spot of red on Enjolras' palm at breakfast this morning and opens his mouth to say something, closes it when he can't find a plausible way to accuse Enjolras of stealing the painting without sounding like a complete lunatic (Enjolras would never stoop to stealing and if he did, it surely wouldn't be for something as meaningless as Grantaire's painting).

Feeling reckless and a little drunk Grantaire says, "You know, I have some others," and Enjolras looks up at him in surprise. He nods, takes a swig of his beer to bolster his confidence. "Yeah, at least ten more." He used to have many more than that, dozens upon dozens of them, but after a particularly bad fight with Enjolras forty eight years ago he'd burned nearly all of them, sparing only those that he couldn't bear to get rid of, and then sprinkled the ashes out his window.

"I've never seen any before," Enjolras says quietly, sounding somewhere been awed and regretful. "I didn't even know."

"Have to say I don't talk about them much," Grantaire answers sardonically. "It might be a little obvious if I showed them off and everyone realized they were only ever of you."

Suddenly he realizes who he's talking to, and what he's just admitted to, and Jesus Christ how did he get this drunk? He flushes, sure he's driven Enjolras off for good, sure that the sun god is about to get up and slap him--and jumps when Enjolras laughs instead. It's not a cruel laugh but genuine amusement, the notes high and clear and entirely unfair. Grantaire would be pouting if he wasn't so afraid he'd never get to talk to him again.

"So no one else has seen them either?" He asks, and Grantaire hadn't been expecting that; he furrows his brow when he shrugs.

"A few of them have," he admits, now that he's thought about it; Jehan and Courfeyrac have probably seen the most, being the ones that generally wake him up and put him to bed each time he stumbles home drunk. "But no, not most of you guys. I don't keep a lot of them."

Enjolras frowns at that, asks, "What do you do with them?" and Grantaire feels ashamed when he remembers putting matches to their fine wooden frames, the paint cracking as the heat consumed them (when he'd burned them he'd been so drunk that he was inconsolable, and found a desperate sort of humor in the way that Apollo's beautiful fire so greedily took his paintings but had always refused Dionysus himself).

"Uh." He rubs a hand through the front of his hair, skewing the curls. "Well I, uh, burned a lot of them."

There, that wasn't so--he pales at Enjolras' expression, beyond horrified. Grantaire's torn between bewilderment and pride because Enjolras looks like someone just notified him that the Mona Lisa had been ripped apart.

"You _burned_ them?" He echoes, staring at Grantaire. " _Why_?"

Grantaire doesn't know how to answer that without reminding him of their biggest fight, the one that drove Dionysus off Olympus for years and into the seediest parts of the mortal world. He pauses, says slowly, "I was mad?" and it sounds more like a question than a statement.

Enjolras is quick to understand what he's trying to say, and his face closes down. "Ah."

"But that was a long time ago," Grantaire hurries to say, afraid to lose him after this, hyper-aware that Enjolras is still touching his knee and that the blonde himself seems to have forgotten. This might be the only shot he gets to grab onto to a firmer friendship (and if he wishes he was clutching to a relationship instead he forgets it, for now--there's always another time). "We haven't been that bad for years."

Enjolras nods, reflexively, the Netflix screen fading after their inactivity. He's not looking at Grantaire anymore but down at his lap, still frowning.

"I can make more," he offers, feeling like the smoke is slipping out of his fingers. "I mean, hell, I can barely paint anything but you anyway so--"

"Wait." Enjolras interrupts him with a raised hand and Grantaire quells under his intense blue eyes. "You still paint me?"

Grantaire frowns, lost to what Enjolras is getting at. "Yeah. I never really stopped." Though he had stopped painting altogether for a long time after their fight, had skittered away from blank canvases like an animal afraid of the light. Enjolras is just staring at him and Grantaire fidgets. "I could stop, if you wanted or--"

"No, no." Enjolras is smiling again and Grantaire doesn't need reminded why he'd do anything for this man. When Enjolras looks on you and smiles it feels as though everything is right in the world; if a being such as Apollo can approve of you then you are not as terrible as everyone thinks. "Keep painting."

He's leaning closer to Grantaire and their foreheads are nearly brushing, Enjolras' hand a solid anchor at his knee. Grantaire thinks his eyes are blue enough to drown in. "I want you to keep painting."

A cellphone goes off, startling both of them, the loud Ke$ha song jarring in the quiet room. Grantaire makes no move to get it and Enjolras blushes when he bends over, removing his hand in order to retrieve Dionysus' phone. "It's for you," he says unnecessarily and Grantaire glances down at it, looks again at Enjolras. 

"It can wait."

Except it can't, because the moment's gone and Enjolras is blushing and fiddling with Grantaire's phone as it stops ringing, and then his own goes off. He pulls it out of his pocket and answers it immediately, stealing a guilty look at Dionysus, who has sunk back into the couch and is watching him with hooded, unreadable eyes.

"Hello?"

"Hey, lovely." It's Courfeyrac, who is the only one entitled to call him such flowery nicknames. "How's the movie going? Jehan and me are about to come home and we wanted to drop in on you guys."

Enjolras looks again at Grantaire, but Dionysus won't meet his eyes anymore and drains his beer instead. "Sure," he says, and Courfeyrac tells him excitedly, "Kisses, we'll be right there." He hangs up and Grantaire tosses his empty bottle--it vanishes mid-arc with a thought.

"Courfeyrac and Jehan on their way?" He asks. His voice is bland and Enjolras frowns, feeling defensive and overheated, remembering the smoky look in Grantaire's dark blue eyes and that tantalizing idea of kissing him.

"Yeah." He pockets his phone and resettles but makes no move to touch Grantaire, and this time he doesn't lean into Enjolras either. He just nods, conjures another beer bottle, and stares at the television screen until Courfeyrac and Jehan arrive, all smiles, flowers in both their hair.

Grantaire looks more human when they show up and he laughs with them, acting as though nothing is wrong. Enjolras frowns and feels like he just missed a very important step in a dance that his partner will never agree to try again.

**Author's Note:**

> yes hello darlings I have delivered to you an e/r chapter that gave me a lot of feels so I hope you guys like it too :D
> 
> title is actually from Ovid, it means "love is a kind of warfare" which I thought was pretty classy for these two hoodlums
> 
> so yes, I love you, I hope you enjoy, follow me on tumblr if you so desire and I hope you guys keep reading! kisses to you alllll


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